


Human Cartography

by Margot_Lescargot



Series: scars [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22817878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: Without meaning to, without even being aware that he was doing so, Alex began to trace the scars with his hand, rubbing a thumb, or a finger, with the lightest of touches, along the lines, across the length and breadth of Thomas’ back, as if he were mapping him, as if by doing so he could discover or understand what lay beneath them.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Series: scars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853590
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Human Cartography

**Author's Note:**

  * For [utrinque_paratus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/utrinque_paratus/gifts).



Thomas lay sleeping; he lay on his stomach, his head facing away from Alex, who had heard his breathing gradually become deeper and more even. He still, even now, if Alex was not holding him, slept in a slightly defensive position, not actually curled into a ball, but as if he could do at any moment, if harm appeared, to try to protect vital organs.

There was no reason why Alex was still awake; the LED numbers glowing beside the bed showed that midnight was long past. They had met late; Thomas had been on a shout to Zone 5 and had gone straight to Alex’s, eaten the remains of a dinner Alex had cooked earlier in the evening, while they had talked primarily of police matters. After he had eaten, Thomas leaned against the cupboards in the kitchen and finished a glass of red wine, while Alex cleared and put away dishes and kissed him in between doing so.

Then they had mounted the stairs to Alex’s room, and undressed, and made love – with tenderness, with fire, with laughter and with joy – as they had done a hundred times before in a hundred different ways. Nothing different in anything but detail from any other night. And now Thomas was asleep and Alex was not.

He reached over to switch on the light next to the bed; maybe a chapter of the book he was reading would help. But before he reached for that also, he looked over at Thomas, to check the light hadn’t disturbed him.

Alex noticed how the angle and intensity of the bedside light picked out the fine tracery of marks on Nightingale’s back and shoulders as he slept. The ruin by his hip was covered by the sheet, and the gunshot wound from three years ago had become paler since Alex first saw it, but it still looked livid compared to the rest.

Alex knew from experience that the marks were worse on his arms, but he couldn’t see them from how Thomas was positioned. Alex raised himself onto one elbow, his book forgotten, and examined his lover intently.

They had spoken, deep in the night – or rather, Thomas had told him, disjointedly, and he had listened – of how he had come to be this record of injury, this patchwork of hurt. The stories were coherent, but not cohesive. What Alex knew, what Thomas had shared, was based primarily on the nightmares that had chased him into fretful, sometimes terrified, wakefulness, and they followed no logic except their own.

Most of the injuries, the scars, the marks and the incisions, were covered simply, unimaginably, by “the war”.

As Alex looked at the hundreds of tiny lines that criss-crossed Thomas’ back, some deeper than others, some more jagged, his heart wrenched for what this man had endured, undoubtedly – although he had never said as much, had never had to – in the service of others. And, knowing the man that Thomas was, as he now did, Alex was in no doubt that many of the scars he now bore had meant that others did not have to.

Without meaning to, without even being aware that he was doing so, Alex began to trace the scars with his hand, rubbing a thumb, or a finger, with the lightest of touches, along the lines, across the length and breadth of Thomas’ back, as if he were mapping him, as if by doing so he could discover or understand what lay beneath them. How this man had survived so much. Why he was here, now.

After continuing some minutes in this fashion, Alex became suddenly aware that, although Thomas had not moved, and his breathing had not changed, he was awake. It was something about a slight increase in tension in the shoulders, almost imperceptible, that made him realise this and, at the same time, that he had been so absorbed, he didn’t know how long Thomas had been lying there feeling Alex’s hand upon him and saying nothing.

Alex swallowed, and withdrew his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just…’

Thomas gave up the pretence and rolled onto his back and looked at Alex. ‘What is it? Does it bother you?’

‘No. No! Well, I mean, yes, it does, obviously, that you… that you’ve…’

Thomas smiled faintly. ‘It was all a long time ago.’ He reached out a hand of his own to Alex’s face. 'Come on. Let's try to get some sleep.'

**Author's Note:**

> This functions as a kind of companion piece to "scar tissue" (which is at https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494431 )


End file.
